Scotty, Bean Me Up
by megaqueer
Summary: shitty coffee shop au /micheoff


Michael narrowed his eyes as the rain continued to pelt down, soaking him through his beanie (which was barely holding onto his limp, dripping curls) and making his clothes stick to his skin unpleasantly. Frustrated, he barged into the nearest shop, not seeing the name through the hazy volley of droplets, which were mixed with hail.

A bell tinkled above the door as he marched in and he was met with a blast of warm air, causing his glasses to mist up. He felt like he'd drowned. Luckily, he was in a coffee shop and was dripping on a laminate floor, not some sort of carpet which would get soggy and mouldy. Unluckily, the barista was not too sympathetic.

"What the fuck, man?" the barista exclaimed, more of a rhetorical question that anything, "Do you have a fucking death wish or something?" here he gestured to Michael's sodden t-shirt. "Put a goddamn coat on next time, Jesus Christ!"

"Bit fucking late for that, don't you think?" Michael snapped back, already bitter at having been caught in the storm.

"Christ, sorry, you look cold as dicks though. You come in for a coffee?" the barista asked as Michael cleaned his glasses.

"I sure as fuck didn't come in for a scolding." Michael countered, irate.

"Shit man, didn't you read the sign?" Huffing, Michael gestured to the streaked glasses he was trying to clean, but was just massaging the grime and droplets that coated them into the glass. Squinting, he gathered that the sign proclaimed 'Rooster Teeth Java' in large writing, with reviews taken from Yelp printed underneath that declared 'rudest barista ever, will not be coming again', 'why they let that man work there i will never know' and 'asshole barista, makes great coffee though' in a smaller font.

"Gee whizz!" gasped Michael, in a mocking tone, "Let's have a cup of this 'great' coffee then."

"What kind?" snickered the barista, with a wave towards the chalkboard that Michael assumed was the menu.

"Fuck if I know," responded Michael, putting on his glasses to look at the chalkboard, "They're all the same shit, aren't they? You take the fucking powder and shove it in the cup, how many variations can there fucking be?!" He was beginning to rage, but suppressed it, not wanting to go on a full rant to the stranger, despite his usual tendency to.

The barista paused in cleaning a cup and began a high-pitched giggle, not a sound Michael expected from the man, who was covered in tattoos (and frankly, Michael's type) and had piercings.

"What?!" yelled Michael, forgoing his previous resolution not to get angry.

Between bursts of laughing and wheezing, the man repeated parts of Michael's statement, "You… You take the fucking… the fucking powder," he broke down laughing again, unable to finish his sentence.

"How the fuck do you make coffee then, asshole?!" spat Michael, not fully meaning it, fortunately, the man seemed to have recognised this.

"Look," said the tattooed worker, "these," he gestured to a bag, stretching his arm and Michael couldn't help but appreciate them and the full sleeve tats, "are coffee beans." Here, he gasped sarcastically, "I know right! Crazy!"

Michael scoffed. "Make me a coffee if you're so good then. I don't give a shit what kind, so long as it's hot."

"I will, and it'll be the best fucking coffee you've ever had – not that you've had many good coffees, Mr 'You take the fucking powder…'." Bragged the man, a teasing tone in his voice.

"Michael." He put in with a smirk.

"Geoff." Responded the man, busy operating the machines with a grandiose air.

With Geoff turned around, Michael was able to appreciate the man's figure, and he took the opportunity with both hands, admiring the man not-so-subtly.

"See something you like?" smirked Geoff, throwing an exaggerated wink over his shoulder.

Michael was not embarrassed to be caught. "Not my fucking coffee." He grumbled, smirking back.

As Geoff turned to face the coffee machine once more, Michael took a seat on one of the bar stools by the counter. Grabbing his water-logged beanie off his head, he shoved it is his bag and tussled his hair, spraying droplets around him like a wet dog. Hearing a snicker from behind him, he swung around to see the bemused face of the employee, before noticing the tea-towel stretched out to him.

"Wouldn't want ickle Mikey-Wikey to catch a cold." Cooed Geoff, though his eyes betrayed a little concern. Michael snorted and seized the towel making an effort to dry his unwieldy hair with it before giving his face a once-over.

"Thanks, jackass." He smiled, relieved to not have his hair dripping in his face.

"Cute freckles." Winked Geoff, Michael raised an eyebrow.

"You'll have to do better than that." He laughed.

"I'll start with the coffee, m'lord." Suggested Geoff, as he left with a slight bow.

"You'd fuckin' better." Murmured Michael, catching Geoff's amused smile at the words and smiling himself.


End file.
